Unconventional Beauty
by littledarkangelhippie
Summary: "The first time I saw her, everything in my head went quiet. All the ticks, all the constantly refreshing images just disappeared. When you have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, you don't really get quiet moments... But when I saw her, the only thing I could think about was the hairpin curve of her lips..." AU. (Kid x OC)
1. The Eyelash

**Disclaimer****: I do not own ****_Soul Eater _or the poem used in the summary.**

The sky was exceptionally blue that day—an oddity in the midst of winter—with streaks of pale cerulean crisscrossing the expanse of it, and if he had been paying more attention, he would've noticed how the clouds surrounding the sun were an odd number, and that some were covering the very edges more than others. But he hadn't been, not exactly.

Because the button on his coat wasn't right side up, and when he twisted it around so that the tiny words engraved upon the golden fronts were aligned correctly, the thick black fabric turned with it—and threw off the immaculate smoothness he had worked it into. And Lord knew how long he'd spent in front of the mirror that morning, straightening and pulling and tugging and shifting until things were properly adjusted to perfection—

And there were too many cracks on the sidewalk, webbed and slicing across the pavement like they had a right to exist, and the trees lining the walk were off by an inch or so (and that would simply just not do, but he was busy and he didn't quite have the time to stop and attempt to fix it somehow; the damage was done as it was) and it broke his rhythmic counting, over and over and over again in his mind; like clocks endlessly ticking. The grass wasn't quite the same length in height on this side as it was on the other.

But there was a nice book stand just outside the park, which stood exactly eight paces from the end of the sidewalk, eight from the phone booth, and eight from the store behind it, and the books and magazines and newspapers were all neat and organized—just like he liked.

So the sky wasn't much of consequence right then.

He flexed his fingers in turn—once with his right, once with his left—and the crack on the sidewalk was perfectly between his boots, and he searched the shelves for the glossy cover of his favorite magazine. The smile that crossed his face was blissfully pleased when he realized, with a soft sigh of appreciation, that it was settled directly in the center of the circle of shining reads.

He picked it from the shelf and scanned the front quickly, with a speculative eye; well-practiced, well-versed. Just as expected, it was pristine and spotless. He edged along the crack to stand before the small window to pay. He leaned forward to see within—at more lines of books and more stacks of magazines, fussily placed so as to face the window with their bindings just so—and found a figure, bundled up in black, reading a small red book with a frayed spine, curled up in the corner. From the slender pale fingers, swathed up in dark wrappings, he could tell it was a woman, but the shapeless wool cap hid her hair and the checkered scarf and thick coat masked her body entirely.

He cleared his throat, and watched her place a simple bookmark in her place and shut the book quietly, setting it down upon a small table and moving from her seat.

When he saw her face, he nearly stumbled over the crack on the walk.

—perfectly between his feet—

Although half of her face was covered by the scarf, and she pulled with her nimble, ivory fingers so that it lifted higher up the delicate bridge of her nose, her appearance was striking. Her eyes were, at least. (At the very, very least.)

They were wide and clear and alert, the sclera pink with weariness and the irises dusty blue, which shone in the graying cast of the sky like glittering crystals or glistening raindrops—and how he wished it would rain, so that the grass in the park would grow to match the other side. Her lashes were stark black and spidery long, spiky like needles but soft like feathers, like the feathers of the crows during autumn which had passed.

The narrowing of her eyes was friendly, as if she were smiling beneath her scarf; he returned it quickly, politely.

(He had to be polite. It was a facet of his being. Unavoidable. Unforgettable.)

"I would like to purchase this copy," he announced, with all the eloquence he could muster—after all, anyone who could impress him _this _much with their elaborately symmetrical display deserved only his utmost respect, and she would receive it without prejudice, even with her obvious eccentricities; the silvery flecks of thin eyebrows furrowed above her mirror-clear eyes and the pinked tip of her small nose—and handed over the magazine for her to charge him.

She took it gingerly, mindfully, and then turned to _tap, tap, tap_ at the register's keyboard. She blinked when it finished charging and hooked a finger under the scarf to pull it down for her to speak, revealing a soft-lipped mouth with rose pink coloring, which was paling with the cold. "That would be eight," she said, and her voice was like the wind, billowing around them sparingly.

And he was glad, he'd admit, that she said that. Like she knew. Like she understood.

For a split second of a short moment, he swore that he fell in love with her.

And that her gaze was undeniably warm and that her lips were entirely inviting, and that her skin would surely feel like satin if he could only touch it. And he could imagine, for that split second of that short moment, that he would gladly let the sky be, the grass be, the trees be, if she would only let him touch her.

Ah, but there, upon the smooth porcelain of her cheek—a tiny imperfection.

All he could see and all he could think was what a shame he couldn't not see—

—_the eyelash on her cheek_—

—_the eyelash on her cheek_—

—_the eyelash on her cheek_—

—_the eyelash on her_—

The moment passed, his heart slowed, and he sighed again, handing over unwrinkled, unfurled bills, and her soft fingertips brushed his. Silken. Warm.

How ironic.

She smiled, so faintly (as if the wind will sweep it away at any moment, and she didn't want to hold onto it any longer now) and he keeps seeing and he keeps thinking—_but she's so beautiful_.

One edge of her rosy lips lifts higher than the other when she smiles.

_Well, in an unconventional way_.

~~...~~X~~...~~

**A.N.****: I've never written a ****_Soul Eater _fanfic before, but I figured I'd give it a try. **

**I read about this man with OCD once, and he spoke about his story, about how he fell in love and how difficult it was, how his life was so complicated by his condition and I thought, "I wanna write about that." I chose Kid for very obvious reasons, and I figured I might as well post this now.**

**I also have OCD, although I guess it's more "extreme perfectionism" than anything. So I found this...surprisingly easy to write.**

**I want to know if you think I should continue. **

**Please review and let me know what you think! (Please?)**


	2. The Piercings

_**Disclaimer**__**: I do not own **____**Soul Eater.**_

At exactly seven twenty-eight, he met a girl with silver hair.

He had run out of milk earlier that night, just about the time he decided he wanted to eat cereal, and as he locked his door twenty-two times, he decided he wanted to buy strawberries, too. On his way to his car, turning back once or twice to check his front door again, he decided he also wanted cookies. And as he tugged on his seat belt—about seven, eight times—he decided he wanted to buy spaghetti as well.

He walked up and down the aisles with a basket in his hand, thinking and rethinking his choices. This brand cost less, but this one felt heavier. Or this box of strawberries had more, but these were so _perfectly shaped_. And on and on until he felt he had chosen correctly, nodding to himself resolutely.

(Although, he did turn back to recheck.)

The line was long, and he counted the specks of gray scattered about his feet upon the off-white linoleum tiles as he waited. When he was only the second person in line, the time was extended by three more minutes when the woman before him had been preparing to pay; he had been counting the amount of items she had upon the conveyer belt until right then, and so his surprise was immediate.

The ideas that had been forming in his mind snapped apart just as coins clattered out from her little coin purse onto the floor loudly.

He wasn't an impatient person.

(In fact, he could consider himself one of the more patient of people.)

He didn't mind waiting a few more minutes in line with a basketful of food for a fellow customer to collect their bearings—he'd even set down his things to help her do so, a penitence for his silent, unfulfilled plans.

Because the items on the conveyer belt, frozen now as they waited for their purchaser to continue paying, were all an odd number—he'd counted exactly twenty times to make sure—and he couldn't stand now to let her leave simply _like that_ knowing she carried an uneven amount of things with her. And if he added one more thing, it _would_ be even, and his fingers did twitch toward the candy rack beside him, no more than an arm's reach away. But then she'd have to pay more, and he _couldn't_ stand for her to waste her hard-earned money because of his obsessions.

It would be terribly selfish of him.

He considered taking the box of macaroni, and rationalized that would only be healthier for her in the long run (_this_ box had more calories; he knew because he'd checked). Only the image of her family, a quick and general conjuring from his imagination, flashed before him, and he thought about how her children might've been looking forward to eating that macaroni, and that she had promised to make them some as soon as she got home.

Shame and guilt poured over him, and he forced his hand to still.

So when her coins had spilled, he had immediately helped, to make up for his selfish thoughts.

The threaded fabric of her coin purse, which had ranged from a royal blue to a honey gold, had strained and caught against the pointed zipper of her simple black bag, and it tore as she yanked carelessly in reaction. How coppery and grayish disks had flown and snapped to the ground, skittering across the linoleum, over the specks of gray randomly splattered upon that tasteless off-white coloring; it was dazzling and yet horrifying. He had flinched very visibly.

The woman was small and plump, with motherly curves and a feminine perfume; sweet, but in that subtle, gentle way that all mothers seemed to have. Her hair was the color of sunsets, a vivid hue of orange with soft yellow lines, curled splendidly about her shoulders. She was short, hardly up to his clavicle with her high wedges, which were knotted up with hemp rope and had pretty white daisies near the toes. She wore a long and flowing skirt and a white blouse, and her eyes were big and hazel brown.

She gave a light, nervous laugh at her blunder and apologized profusely.

And so he helped, because she reminded him of the mother he'd always wanted and because he hadn't meant to tamper with her things and he wished he could make up for it, and he held his breath when she paid for her oddly numbered things.

With a genuine, "Thank you," she swept out of the store entirely, and was off to feed her family and float through the rest of her life like a flower.

Like the flowers on her shoes.

As he paid for his things—deciding he'd eat spaghetti, then, instead of cereal—a voice piped up behind him.

They had been humming a song the entire time, he knew, because he had spent half of the time debating the woman's items trying to figure out what song it was.

"You look shaken," they commented in a whispery voice as he watched the cashier, a boy of about sixteen with mild acne and oily hair, turn the box of cookies in his hands in search for the barcode.

—_It's under the nutrition facts!_—

"She startled me," he replied without looking at them, reaching into his pocket for his wallet as the boy began to bag the items. He plucked the appropriate amount from the wallet and handed it over.

"Does everything startle you?"

What a curious notion.

He turned, while the boy began to punch the proper numbers in, to see who spoke to him so casually. It wasn't often somebody else noticed his condition—it wasn't even a topic of conversation between his friends, most days—but, when it happened, it was usually by a psychologist or some parent who had raised a child much like him. And so he was taken aback when he found they weren't at all who he expected to find.

And it was exactly seven twenty-eight when he met her—_really_ met her—and he only knew because the clock hung on the space of wall just behind her, _tick tick ticking_ away without pause, but more slowly than it usually did.

Much more slowly.

She was pale, with a short and petite stature and a well-hidden figure—beneath a black coat and loose pants and scuffed boots—and her hair was silver, wild. Messy. Disorganized.

_She_ was disorganized.

And his mind was endlessly wrapping itself around it, circling it, probing at it, wondering why, why, _why_ was his heart pounding so fast now?

She had a tiny nose piercing on her left, but not on her right, and two silver rings on her right brow, but not on her left. And six small loops on her right ear, but only four on her left—and God it drove him insane with frustration and overrode his mind with violent and angry words of black and white and everything unruly and untidy—

And she smiled.

His mind stopped.

His mind _stopped_.

—_His mind stopped_—

One edge lifted higher—a small smirk.

_But she's beautiful_.

His eyes lifted to search hers, and they reminded him of mirrors, except not. Because they were perfectly blue and icy and open, and glittering, glistening raindrops of crystals and endless warmth.

_No_, he wanted to say. _No_.

The moment shattered, just like last time.

He wasn't in love.

He wasn't.

"Have a nice day, sir," the boy said in a hitching voice.

Wheeling quickly, he gathered the plastic bags and hurried out before she could speak again.

~~...~~X~~...~~

**A.N.****: Ah. Mild development.**

**This is surprisingly easy to write, I'm not kidding. Maybe because I'm on familiar grounds here. I don't know.**

**Will I be explaining any of this? I'm not sure. I think I'll just let the story explain itself.**

**Anyways, please review! Tell me how I did!**

**(By the way, 728 can be divided by 8, Kid's favorite number. But the answer would be 91, which is both a prime number and an _odd_ number. Roll that about in your minds.)**


	3. The Sock

**Disclaimer****: I do not own ****_Soul Eater_.**

The most unromantic place in the world was a gas station.

On the night he had planned to meet his friends for dinner at an unassuming diner on the other side of town, his car had decided to run out of gas. Luckily, the gas station was just a block away, just enough for the measly remnants of his tank to take him where he needed to go. The station was small and simple, with faded red pumps and unimpressive inventory, but it was reasonably affordable and it had exactly four pumps on either side of the small convenience store if viewed from the front. So he had no real problems with it.

It was empty when he arrived, with only a shiny silver model already pulling out to disappear into the night, leaving the station all to himself.

Things were still and quiet.

The old man who owned the station was short and stout, with thick framed glasses and a gray bushy mustache. He had beady brown eyes settled deep in his leathery wrinkles and the hair atop his head was thin and whitening. He had a rumbling voice that made him feel like a child of seven rather than the young adult he knew himself to be, and his smile was wide and infinite, and it stretched his face in that pleasant way elderly people had. He wore a nice white button-up that he tucked into his high black slacks, held up by a thin brown belt that had a golden buckle; and, beneath the folds of his collar, he had a deep blue tie knotted so perfectly, all of the mess was forgiven without qualms.

The shop wasn't particularly neat or tidy, but it was small and homely and it felt warm when he let himself feel it.

He bought a pack of mint gum for the road and fixed the plastic green skirt of the miniature tan-skinned hula dancer near the cash register before he went.

Outside, the smell of rain was hovering over him, strong and sweet and cold, and the clouds above were a dark russet, almost black, and he traced the shapes of them in his mind before silently wishing he'd brought an umbrella. Or a thicker coat.

The handle nearly got stuck when he pulled it out, and he fumbled for a second trying to unscrew the cap—heaven forbid his hair got wet—but the transfer was smooth and he watched the digits fly away on the narrow orange screen, flexing his fingers as the night became colder. Steadily, slowly, and the next breath that left him clouded white around his mouth.

A loud and beaten down pickup thundered into the station, and it stopped right across from him. He only glanced in disinterest before directing his eyes back to the screen impatiently.

And he wasn't an impatient person, but he hated to keep people waiting.

The pickup's door slammed shut, and a pair of heavy boots stomped toward the store. He wished the old man well with whomever the patron was, thanking his lucky stars he didn't have to deal with them himself—as the numbers dwindled down rapidly and he breathed across his fingers for warmth.

Near the end of the transaction, the digits slowing gracelessly, it began to drizzle very lightly, and he heard a person speak in a whispery, wind-like voice—and it reminded him of storms and fear and high mountains and snow and rain and—

—and—

—and—

"You look cozy," she said, and his eyes snapped to hers so quickly he felt the touches of a headache jab his temples sharply.

_She_ looked cozy. A long, smoky gray military coat with dark buttons, black jeans, and those scruffy combat boots she wore the last time. Her hands were swathed up in those dark wrappings, fingers pale and nimble and free, and the scarf she wore was crimson and tucked under the coat. Her hair was left free, in messy wisps of silver, and her nose was pink again, just at the tip.

And his mind was slowly unwinding.

"Don't watch the news much, do you?" she went on, and gestured toward the rain, which was picking up quickly. "Weather called for 'showers'." She stepped forward.

He forced himself to stay put.

(He wanted to run away.)

Her eyes were icy and warm all at the same time, and the way she stared up at him through those spiky lashes made strange things twist in his stomach tightly, and no matter how many times he counted the piercings in her ears or eyebrows, he couldn't keep himself from _wanting_—

—_to touch_—

—_to feel_—

—_to not see, or think, or obsess over the fact that she was shaking the box of candy in her hand over and over and over and over_—

Her pale pink tongue swiped across her lower lip absentmindedly, and they immediately curved in a smile when he stared.

—_That_ smile—

"Funny I ran into you here," she said when he didn't say anything, and stepped around the misplaced trashcan between the lanes, hopping onto the little cement platform and stopping there, so that he didn't have to tilt his head down _too_ much to look at her; so that his heart could crash out of his chest in a violent display of his fears and wants and despair (and she could probably hear it now, _thump_ _thump_ _thumping_ away at the beat and speed and angry velocity of a freight train). She stuffed her hands into her pockets and shifted her weight to one leg easily. Unaffected, as he was. "I've been meaning to ask for your name."

And her gaze was patient and kind, that tiny smirk never leaving her lips, and he just _couldn't_ stop himself, no matter how much he searched for a way out.

The left leg of her pants was rolled up higher than the right, and he could see the hints of a neon blue sock riding over her ankle, between the crisscrossed lines of her shoelaces, because she apparently didn't have the decency to tie them. The earring on the lobe of her right ear was the shape of a jagged cross, but the one in her left lobe was a hot pink dice. Her belt was a chain and it remained unclasped, and the waist of her pants rode low near her left hip, where he could see the very tip of some tattoo he was absolutely sure was not reflected on the other side.

And he just—he just wanted to—

—_he didn't know what he wanted but he wanted to do it_—

And his friends were waiting on the other side of town for him and he hated to keep people waiting.

But her eyes were mirroring back his wants and she was_ smiling that smile_.

He just wanted to know if her lips tasted like the opened box of candy in her hand, _shake_ _shake_ _shaking_—_over and over and over and over_—

He opened the door to his car, feeling her eyes following his movements, and mumbled an apology about eight times in his mind, four aloud, and pulled out of the station and sped toward the diner his friends waited at now.

Because he'd almost told her what he shouldn't have been feeling.

Because she was so imperfect.

Because he was foolish.

Because her smile was so wrong.

Because her shoes were untied and her eyes were so blue.

Because the gas station was the most unromantic place in the world.

And he couldn't stand for imperfection.

He _couldn't_.

~~...~~X~~...~~

**A.N.****: Sorry I didn't upload this earlier. I was out buying hand sanitizer that smells like peaches.**

**I like peaches.**

**Anyway, please review! **


	4. The Hair Clip

**Disclaimer****: I do not own ****_Soul Eater._**

**...**

He asked her out eight times in forty seconds.

The sun wanted to hide behind the clouds, drenched a deep gray at the centers of them and tapering off to pearly hues at the very edges. A droplet of cool rain flicked upon his skin every now and then as he walked out to pluck an extra leaf from a plant outside his home, and he decided he would stay in today. Just for today.

He showered twice, once after he woke up and once after he ate breakfast; he felt like dirt was clogging his every pore, like muck was coating every strand of hair on his body, like no amount of peppermint-smelling soap could clean him, and no matter how hard he scrubbed or for how long, he wouldn't be able to stop feeling like this.

It was a fact of life he had to accept, another string within his mind that couldn't be snipped or plucked—like leaves from plants that don't deserve it—and it made his world spin, very quickly, like a top on a flat surface. Like the tops his father would give him to play with as a child, when he kept picking at imaginary pieces of lint on his shirts or when he thought so long he wore his own brain out and his father's tired eyes were so tight with worry and fear and pain and sadness and—

—and—

He busied himself with redecorating his house.

Again.

Like every Saturday of every second week of every month he'd ever lived in his own space.

Like every moment he spent too long alone.

Pulling on his coat, he stepped out to take a walk—to clear his ever-tinkering mind.

(He locked the door twenty-six times.)

It would rain again soon, and it soaked into the skin of his face and throat and ears, and each breath was cold and short and he wanted nothing more that to go back inside—but then his mind would eat away at him and he just couldn't take anymore of it. Not now.

The air was cool and fresh and he inhaled very deeply and he wished that he didn't have to notice how metallic it tasted on his tongue and how much it scared him to know the rain was drenching into his hair slowly.

He just kept walking.

Midway between the neighborhood park and the fence-line separating the train tracks from the streets, there was a peculiar turn through a misplaced alleyway, squeezed between two scraggly, miserable-looking houses with rundown and rusting cars decaying on either the lawns or halfway atop the curbs. He would've overlooked it any other day, perhaps even been repelled by it, but there, amidst the crumpled, strewn scraps of old newspapers and scattered green shards of beer bottles, was a pretty hibiscus flower the color of a sunset.

So out of place he came forward without thinking it through first.

(So _unlike _him it should've startled him out of his spontaneity.)

After a few moments of hesitance, he stooped and reached a hand out to pluck it—_like that leaf_.

But, of course, he should've known nothing could be so simple. Not with something so beautifully unorthodox.

Not with something so uncommon it bordered the thin line between exquisite and bizarre.

"I always try to plant something pretty in unpretty places," she said, and his fingers never touched the petals, snatching them away in surprise; he shot up to his feet and spun to face her.

She wore a pale wool sweater with light colored jeans, nails white-tipped and free of nail polish and scruffy boots exchanged for a pair of bright yellow rain boots. She had a dark knitted backpack and carried a lavender watering can, a poppy red gardening hand shovel, and he could see some seedling packets tucked into her right front pocket. Her silver hair was, for a change, somewhat tame, except the reason was frustrating.

One black hair clip on the left, holding aside her bangs, and three small rubber bands imprisoning random sections of her hair—one somewhere beneath her left ear, one near the top at the right, and one lower down at the back—three different colors of blue, white, and a curious hue of yellow.

Before he could do something irrational, like attempt to fix her hair or _kindly _coordinate her toward the nearest department store to find something that actually _matched_, he stepped away from the flower, opening his mouth to apologize.

"It's alright if you want to pick it," she said, and shook the watering can toward him absently. "I was just gonna water it." She smiled, nearly grinned, and he noticed her teeth were straight and that the canine were uncommonly sharper than most—he decided, quicker than anything else in the entire world _right then_, that he liked her teeth—and she said, mirthfully, "I guess the rain can take care of that, though, can't it?"

He swallowed very hard.

Her eyes found his slowly, and he felt his heart almost stop.

—And that was such a scary feeling, as if he was two steps closer to dying whenever he was around her, as if his next breath would be his last—

—And all he kept wondering, over everything else that could've _possibly _mattered, like what would happen to his home if he died or how would his friends feel or who would dust the clock he kept hung in the living room, was how it would feel like to hold her in his arms—

(He hated himself immensely for it.)

"I've really been meaning to ask you," she murmured, and her eyes lowered slowly—and he missed them so much—and all he wanted was for her to _look _at him again, no matter how much it made his chest hurt or his stomach twist or his mouth go dry or his hands tingle or his brain fizzle uselessly—all he wanted was—

—was—

"What's your name?" she mumbled. "I just wanna know your name."

Did it matter how many piercings or how many hair bands or how many tattoos (that hid beneath her clothes in ways that made him want to _see_) or how many little tiny flaws covered her body? Did it matter how that little thread stuck out from her sweater (and how he worried if she was warm and how he would give his jacket if she wanted and that frightened him because he wouldn't do that for anyone else) or how that curl of silver hair plastered to her cheek the longer they stood in the sprinkle of rain? Did it matter how her voice reminded him of wooden wind chimes, clitter-clattering in the breeze, or how it reminded him of dreams he didn't remember having? Did it matter how _blue _her eyes were, like crystals or diamonds or skies that never saw or met or knew the meaning of pollution?

Did it matter how one edge of her lips lifted higher than the other?

Did it matter that a tiny dimple appeared at the end of her lips at the left but not on the right?

Did it matter that she was _imperfect_, and every single thing he had ever hated in his life?

(_But she's so damn beautiful that it hurts to look at her and he wants so many things but he doesn't know where to even begin and, oh God, when she talks he feels warm and he hasn't said anything back and—he—can't—_)

He asked her out eight times in forty seconds.

He nearly choked on his heart.

He nearly drowned in her eyes.

She said yes after the third one but he had to keep asking.

Because it had to be perfect.

~~...~~X~~...~~

**A.N.****: I'm glad you guys are liking this. Very encouraging.**

**Please review!**


	5. The Color Teal

**Disclaimer****: I do not own ****_Soul Eater._**

He didn't kiss her the first night.

It was pouring now, and the sky was almost black, clouds bunched together like the clumps of sugar that always made his teeth grit when he spooned out portions into his morning coffee. It was maddening and dizzying and he wanted to tear the sky down with his bare hands—but a whispery voice told him, very lightly, that the rain wasn't all that bad when you thought about it.

—when you thought about it—

The sidewalk had so many cracks he had to pause every now and then to step around them _just right_, but she waited and only offered a smile when he glanced up to apologize; she was completely unbothered and insouciant.

(His heart gave a twist.)

A little coffee shop not too far from the park was where she led him, and they were both sopping wet with rain by the time they reached it—and he was cold and he felt dirty and he just wanted to take another shower and then lie in bed for hours until the feeling passed, but she her eyes were bright and her cheeks were flushed the prettiest pink he could imagine. And so it wasn't so bad, when he didn't think about it.

And he would offer his jacket, except it was warmer without it and she was wringing out her silvery hair and her gardening tools were scattered about the ground so carelessly he fought the urge to organize them. The inside of the shop was warm, though, and she picked the booth furthest from the door, where tiny candles flickered softly and the furnace duct up above roared mutely; his skin thawed slowly and he watched as every strand of curl dried about her face and how she pulled the clip and ties to shake her fingers through pallid locks.

(Droplets flicked upon his skin but he didn't mind so much right then.)

"It's good you asked me out," she said as they waited for a waitress, her eyes locked on his fingers as they made work rubbing heat back into his knuckles and palms.

He felt his ears burn and cleared his throat as quietly as he could. "Oh?" he asked, attempting and failing miserably at nonchalant, and he felt his heart quicken in his chest—_thumping so loudly now he felt it shaking throughout his body—_when her gaze moved to his, unwavering and knowing. "Why's that?"

The smile she gave was surprisingly sheepish, and he noticed immediately that the dimple was so much more noticeable this way, and he found that painfully endearing. "I've never been good with these types of things." A slender, snowy finger tucked a wayward strand behind her small ear, and he could see she had switched her black loops for tiny crystal studs, hidden in what shadows pooled within slight dips there were. "Emotions are hard for me to express, you know, and I didn't think I could ask you out myself."

And there, the little curve at the edge of her lips—which reminded him of the hairpins he used to find on floors in his high school classrooms and hallways, dropped by air-headed girls that popped their bubblegum at him so loudly he flinched—he _knew_, just like she knew—

"I like you, too, you know."

The coffee she ordered was very sweet—vanilla bean with cream and chocolate syrup on top—and the muffin was banana-flavored, and she swore she loved bananas, but only when they're mixed with other things, and she covered her mouth when she chewed and looked away when he stared—_because_, she muttered_, I'm nervous—_and he wanted to pull her hand away but he _couldn't._

(_You're not as ugly as you think you are, and I just want you to know that._)

She worked at the book stand part-time, and was studying in college as an art major—she was thinking maybe fashion design, _except you think I can't because I'm dressed this way, don't you_ (and he bit back a smile in response because she was completely right). She shared a dorm with a Physics genius, and liked to play piano when she could. They sold these delicious sub sandwiches on her campus, and she could eat them every day if she could afford them, and she liked the taste of cherries in the spring because they were sweet and she loved the rain because it smelled like life. Her best friend was a tall woman with frizzy hair and glasses that wrote the "most beautiful songs in the world" and she had a baby brother back home with green eyes and black hair.

_Looks nothing like me, but he's the most adorable thing._

And she spoke around her straw and her lips were turned up gently, eyes moving from his hands to his hot cocoa to his face to her muffin and back again, a soft look in them that made his throbbing heart tug sharply whenever her spidery lashes fluttered a moment too long. And there was a lock of hair that hadn't dried properly and he wanted to reach over and ruffle it until the icy liquid evaporated from her hair completely—_he wanted her warm already_.

Her eyes found his (_finally, finally_) and the smile was sudden, unexpected, and there were little crinkles at the edges of those eyes and he realized she must've smiled a lot—except maybe she didn't and he was only just _imagining, again; like always—_and she said, "You have such beautiful eyes."

A laugh left him.

His throat constricted around his words and his heart rose up to swallow his fears and his face was hot with whatever shade of red she wanted to perceive and his fingers grasped too tightly at the napkin tucked nicely beneath his cup, tearing it into powdery flecks of sallow white that stuck to his hands. His mind spun with a million thoughts and questions and theories and—and—and her sweater still stuck to her like a second skin of thin pale cotton and he wondered if she was cold or sick or maybe even delusional because for her (_for her_) to describe any single part of him as _beautiful_ was—was—

A laugh left him.

_You're beautiful_, he almost said. But her arm was stretching out, and her hand was getting closer, and her fingers were so delicate and pink-tipped and ivory-colored that his breath caught right there in his throat, where no words could escape because his heart was crashing against his ribs and he wanted to tell her how afraid he was—_of everything, everything, yes, even you, because you're so perfect and yet so imperfect—_and her eyes were wide and clear and warmer than any blanket at home he could wrap himself in or any shower he could ever take.

And then her fingers brushed his cheek, the very tips where hardly her skin touched his and her thawed nails skimmed lightly, tickling him, and he wanted and he wished and he almost—_kissed her fingers—_and she sighed.

"I'm really glad you asked me out," she murmured, and the faint pink on her face turned to red and he rubbed the back of his hand against his cheek where she had touched; it tingled to all hell but he wouldn't tell her that.

"I'm hardly even talking," he grumbled, and jumped when he felt her foot tap against his briefly.

And her eyes shone brightly and she leaned closer, as if she had a secret to tell and he was the only one she wanted to hear it, and he saw, with a quick fluttering in the pit of his stomach and an angry yank in the strings somewhere in the back of his mind, that there was one—_only one, all alone—_strand of silver on her left eye, amongst all the black, spiky needles. One silver eyelash that caught the light of the candles, whose orange, flickering light reflected off the crystal of her gaze. "But that's the best part," she whispered, and it sounded like a breeze in the dead of winter but it felt like the scorch of the sun in the peak of summer. "You're so _interesting_, and you don't even have to speak."

A bubbling feeling rose within him and he sipped quietly at his hot cocoa, but he couldn't pull his eyes from her, and she seemed to teeter between confidence and bashfulness—and he felt the yanking cease, for a moment.

"I run into you a lot," she commented, and wiped the crumbs from her fingers onto a napkin, picking out bits from beneath her nails absently. "The first time I saw you was when I first started working there, some months ago. I guess you didn't really notice me."

He wondered why he hadn't. He really, really did.

"You were wearing this nice leather jacket and your hair was slicked back," she continued, and her smile widened. "I thought you were so handsome."

Try as he may, he couldn't remember. He hardly did try as it was. His palms were sweating and his heart was picking up again.

Would it ever be calm in her presence? Or would this be a constant occurrence?

He didn't mind if it was. Not really.

"Are you hungry?" she asked him suddenly, as if what manners hid deep within the back of her mind had just surfaced to the very forefront of her thoughts, shoving its way out from between story-telling and rambling. She looked around as if she could conjure something up from thin air, her hands curling about the edge of the table.

He shook his head quickly, even though he was, in fact, very hungry, because he knew he would be busier organizing his food than speaking to her—_not that he spoke much anyway, and that was starting to frustrate him—_and he couldn't do that. He wanted to keep looking at her. He didn't want to miss a thing.

She reminded him of candlelight. Fleeting. Evanescent. Temporary.

(He didn't want to miss a thing.)

Despite his protest—only half-persuading and only half-honest—she called for the waitress anyway. "I can hear your stomach growling from here," she insisted, and turned a smile to the heavy-set woman holding a hot pink pen.

—_Can you hear my heart, too?—_

"I'm not that hungry," he muttered, and wiped his sweaty hands down the legs of his pants and wondered, illogically, if she would be disgusted to hold his hand because of it.

"Then let's share a plate," she offered, and turned to the waitress to order the daily special.

"Why do you plant them?" he asked (he couldn't take not knowing), and she didn't seem surprised that he asked, nor did she seem confused by the question. As if she were on the same wavelength—and that scared them because she _shouldn't _be.

It wasn't a good place to be, his mind.

"When I was ten my grandmother loved to plant things, and she told me it makes the world prettier," she said, and her gaze held all the warmth and brilliance of midsummer evenings, recalling some memory he would never see himself. "When she passed away, I promised I would make the world prettier for her." She tucked that same wayward strand back behind her ear. "That's why."

And he couldn't think of a better reason. He couldn't think of a better person to do it.

A quick and playful grin crossed her features, and it stunned something inside of him—maybe his mind, maybe his heart, maybe something a little more—and she asked, "Why did you run from me before?"

His face burned and he looked away. "I'm no good with people like you."

When the food arrived, she nudged the plate closer to him. A cheeseburger with crispy curly fries and a long slice of pickle on the side. His stomach snarled and she hummed along with it, an edge of her lips lifting higher when he looked at her quickly. "Eat," she coaxed, and poked the plate closer with one nimble finger.

A part of him whispered it was rude, how he scarfed down the cheeseburger like it was his last, but it tasted sweet and rich and one of her sharp canine rolled on her lower lip as she smiled at him, telling him she found it cute when he asked what was wrong.

His heart pitter-pattered and he swallowed down the food quickly, forcing himself to slow down.

She ate the curly fries, saving the curliest ones for the last—and she held out the best one for him to take, the one that was coiled perfectly. "I want you to have it," she said, as if she were actually giving him a precious jewel, but perhaps, to her, it felt like that.

He ate it very slowly.

"I'm no good with people like you, either."

"But you're also no good with emotions."

"It's sweet you're actually listening to me."

(_You have so many interesting things to say, that's why_.)

She crumpled up a napkin in her hand and tossed it haphazardly onto the plate. Her mouth opened to speak—he leaned closer to hear—and then, because the gods must've hated him _a little_, there was a tinkling, whistling sound coming from her knitted backpack, which slouched on the bench beside her, and her mouth snapped shut quickly. "I'm sorry." She stumbled out of her seat when she checked the screen of her sleek black phone (there was a sticker of a llama on the back and he didn't understand it, not entirely). "I have to take this. I'll be right back."

He could hear her whispery voice speaking quickly to the caller, and he kept twisting and pulling and clumping up the napkin until it was nothing more than a wad of dusty shreds in his hands.

—_He felt lost without her, and that was the scariest part of it all—_

If he stared long enough, he could make out the color of her bra, some sort of teal that fell out of place with her paler color choice—_he tried not to stare too long_.

"I want to do this again," she said when she came back, holding her phone very tightly and her blue eyes dark with regret. "I'm sorry, I have to leave. Something came up. But I really want to do this again."

He stood then, and fished for his wallet in his pocket to pay for their meal. She piped up to protest but he only shook his head. "A gentleman always pays," he said, as if it were common knowledge.

A smirk touched her lips—_that _smirk, which was quickly becoming his favorite no matter how asymmetrical it was; how odd, that fact—and she quipped, "Is that what you are? I'm paying next time."

(He wondered when the fluttering feeling in his stomach would stop. It was torturous.)

He held the door open for her and she pointed out, cheerfully, that the rain had finally stopped. And he noticed that that curl had finally dried—_he still wanted to ruffle her hair—_and she turned to look up at him.

"Goodbye, then," she breathed, and the look in her eyes pierced right through to the dustiest corners of his mind.

(Her lips were the color of a budding rose, and they hooked up at the edges—a constant smile—and the lower one was a little fuller and there was a tiny dapple of cream at one end, left over from her vanilla bean coffee and he wanted to lick it off, but could never be so daring, and so he didn't.)

He didn't kiss her the first night.

He watched her spin on the heel of a sunny rain boot and stride away quickly, an urgency leaking into her posture that cut up his thoughts as soon as she rounded a corner.

He wished he had kissed her—_because she gave him the curliest fry and she thought his eyes were beautiful_.

And he didn't know it then, but she wished he'd kissed her, too.

~~...~~X~~...~~

**A.N.****: The chapter titles are the things that bother him most, at the time.**

**Anyway, please review! This is the longest chapter so far! Whoa. **


	6. Stripe-Patterned Paperclips

**A.N.****: Pardon the slow update. I had to take a short break for a sort of "creative recoup". If that sort of thing even exists...**

**Disclaimer****: I do not own ****_Soul Eater._**

He didn't kiss her the second day, either.

His body went about the mechanics of his mornings, movements clockwork and methodical. Bowing his head to watch the steaming water of his shower swirl down the drain, tracing the lines between each small white tile under his bare feet, and then searching for lines he'd never seen before on the skin of his toes and sighing when he found none. Drying his body with a soft towel and stifling his yawns against his palms, smoothing away the creases in his pants when he buttoned the last button and tugging at the hem of his shirt until it hugged him perfectly. And then brushing his teeth until they shone again and then coating his face with shaving cream, narrowing his eyes as he painstakingly passed a razor over imaginary hair—he'd shaved yesterday, and the day before that, but he'd be damned if he found a single strand of black anywhere on his face.

He aligned his boots carefully near his bed as he sat down to pull his socks on, and knotted up the thin strings very slowly so that he _knew, this _side is the same as _that _side, and then wiped away unseen scratches on the toes of them. He chose a particular sweater that day, black and gray, with thick stripes and a long hem; because there was an equal number of lines and the zipper was always so nice and neat and reminded him of polished black gold. Except not.

Maybe he should wear the military-styled coat instead.

So, a few minutes of straightening and clasping and rubbing his thumb across silver buttons, and then adjusting the collar and then rethinking his hairstyle, and then doubting his entire outfit as a whole, he finally shook his head and pinched the area between his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, heaving a sigh. Forcing himself to calm down.

A bright red apple and a cool glass of water later, and he was turning the front doorknob over and over again, rechecking if it was locked and then questioning himself the entire way to his car. And he wasn't one for wasting gas—_he rechecked the front door another six times—_but he felt there was no way to avoid this any longer.

A week had passed since he'd last bumped into her, and his pestering, troublesome mind kept jeering at him incessantly, all until he gave in and decided to see her himself.

(Why he hadn't thought to ask for her number at all escaped him entirely.)

The rain had been nonstop all week and he didn't think he could stand to have his hair drenched again, no matter how much time passed. And the drive itself was short and quick, and he immediately felt as if he was being uneconomical—as if a block or so would truly make any difference at all—but when he slowed to an idling stop by the book stand, he felt, perhaps, he could possibly excuse that thought entirely.

Because there she was, locking up the book stand after an obligatory morning of accounting for all the current stocks, wiping away the mist from her forehead and latching the final latch that closed the front entirely and then turning to look through her violet-colored bag for something. She wore a dark gray beret, with her hair tucked behind her ears, although her bangs were swept across her forehead. Her scarf was white and fluffy this time, and she had switched back into her scruffy boots. Her pants were a smoky color and he could see a dark t-shirt underneath her coat.

She wore the same coat as he did.

(He smiled to himself.)

He rolled down the window and called out to her, a sudden and unexpected amount of confidence filling him. She spun, and her expression was curiously flustered—porcelain cheeks glowing pink and bright blue eyes wide—and she blinked back at him for a few moments before a wide and cheerful grin broke across her face. She strode over and opened the passenger door without hesitance, climbing into the car and slamming the door shut as if he had openly invited her.

(He was glad she did; his confidence had drained when she smiled.)

She was half turned toward him, silent, and a tension filled the quiet so thickly his car felt ten times smaller and his mouth a thousand times drier. He suddenly didn't trust himself at all.

"I have a present for you," she announced, breaking the moment to rummage through her bag. He could see a mess of things inside—which ranged from tiny pieces of sour candy and colorful hairpins to an unopened bottle of pain killers and a few stripe-pattered paperclips—and he felt his teeth begin to worry his lower lip as she dove a hand within the scramble for something he couldn't quite fathom. But his body felt light and he was quick to smile when she looked back over at him. "Hold out your hand," she commanded, and he noticed her searching had finally stopped, and the ends of her lips curled upward in a strangely cat-like smile.

"You really didn't have to get me anything," he said, but did as she said anyway, and did not further try to argue against her. So entirely unlike him that he began to doubt himself again.

"I know," she admitted, almost bashful, pulling her bag onto her lap further. "You probably think I'm weird—but when I saw it, it immediately reminded me of you..."

(And how nice it was to know she thought of him.)

From the messy, jumbled confines of her plum-colored bag, she produced a small, glossy box, cradled gingerly between her spindly fingers. It shone in what dim light slanted through the windshield, a white gleam sliding across its surface smoothly. His gaze followed it intently, brows slowly pulling together as her fingers made work deftly peeling open a stiff flap of clear plastic.

What could she have possibly gotten him?

She shook out its contents onto her palm, and then dropped the box back into her bag. "Before you say anything," she murmured, her voice just as silken as the rain falling against the glass of the windows of his car, "it didn't cost me too much. So don't go off scolding me about prices and such." Her dusty blue eyes flicked to his quickly, a silent warning in their warm and cold depths, leveling his gaze evenly, and then she held out her hand for him to accept his gift.

(_He wanted to tell her how tight his heart twisted when she looked so serious._)

Her palm was rose-tinted and milky-edged, and the lines were all soft and faint and whispery—_like her voice and like her smiles—_and he could trace its every indentation and every odd swirl—but there, in the middle, were two ink-black circles that cut off and sliced up every thought that had shred through his mind right then. So stark against his vision he felt the vaguest throb of a headache spin about his mind before he blinked—_once, twice, three times—_to clear his mind.

"Cufflinks," she provided when he continued to stare, and her eyes grew more and more unsure as the seconds flew by (faster than the way the world spun about on its axis—_like a top, oh God_).

He pinched one from her small palm between his thumb and forefinger, and brought it up to examine, mind already searching for flaws and imperfections he knew he shouldn't have been searching for. The front was an onyx-stained glass, and it shined like water under the moon, still and unrippling, and when he turned it, light jumped off its untouched surface quickly.

A white skull grinned back at him from the very center.

"It reminded you of me?" he asked, and rolled it about his palm slowly. He couldn't possibly fathom why it did; the idea escaped him entirely whenever he sought it out. But it looked to him like black gold, the thin rim about the glass, and he felt himself smile very slightly.

"I thought of you immediately," she replied, and he would never tell her how his chest hurt to hear her say that so suddenly.

He thought of what outfits to wear them with, which suits would fit its odd design, and turned to find her watching him patiently. Her eyes reminded him of the sunrises he never thought to see anymore.

(He wished he would see the sunrises again.)

"I like them very much," he said at last, and saw the edge of her lips rise _just_ a little. "Thank you."

She dropped the second one into his palm quickly, and then quietly fastened her seat belt. A quick and curt, "Yes, well," was all she gave in response.

(_He just wished he would've realized, that he would've been more observant, more sensitive to her—so that he would've known—that—she—_)

"Where are we going?" she asked, clapping her hands down on her knees, bringing his questioning to an abrupt halt once again.

"I'm not sure," he confessed, pocketing the cufflinks after a moment of wondering. He switched on the heat for her, and had the pleasure of seeing her eyes flutter in relief, raising her hands up to thaw them. "I just...felt like seeing you," he mumbled, taking hold of the wheel again—_something to keep him distracted_.

"Then how 'bout a suggestion?" she said, taking off her beret to comb her fingers through her hair. He caught a faint, floral scent as she shook it in his direction briefly, but it was gone before he could pinpoint what it was exactly. "I want to get to know you," she began, tucking wavy strands behind her ear, where he could see another piercing had been replaced with a thin black bar and a warped red heart. "I don't want to head into a...relationship without _knowing _you first."

He held his breath, something great and obtrusive hanging on a wiry string above his head—a sword perhaps, or a cocked pistol—and let it out in a loud gust when she reached over and curled a cool finger around one of his gently. Quietly.

"Let's just take a drive," she mumbled, and her grip tightened for a moment, before she let go entirely. Her eyes lifted to his, and a million things passed behind them before she gave a very small, uncertain smile. "I don't want to push you into anything."

"You're not—" he started to reassure, but she shook her head at him.

"I don't want to push things—_us _too quickly," she amended, reaching a hand out to his radio to switch it on, skipping through stations until she settled on something calming, lowering the volume until it was nothing more than background noise. Soothing.

There were a thousand things he wanted to do, right then—and a thousand more he _shouldn't—_but the one that hit hardest, that tore across his every vein and burned his every nerve to crisps, was the undeniable urge to—to—but he had to refrain.

Because she was right. And he was never the kind of person to admit others were right. Far too stubborn and far too obstinate of a man to do so. (_He'd always been, quite honestly._)

He set the car back into drive, and flicked on the windshield wipers as the rain began to settle into a steady, even pace.

"Alright, then," he finally said, and felt her sky-bright eyes lock on him. They burned into him, and he felt that same, obtrusive feeling once again—a poised blade—a loaded gun—"Where would you like to go?"

Her hands turned up and her shoulders shrugged in a flippant, careless way—the sort of way that always irritated him, but perhaps the feelings still spiraling through him was still too prominent to ignore just yet, for he felt nothing more than a distant sense of frustration before it was gone once more—and a smile curved her lips upward. "The point isn't to have a destination to _go to_," she told him, leaning her head back into the headrest. "We're just _spending time together_."

It was an unfamiliar concept, really. He had never thought "spending time" with anyone was anything more than some small talk held in some public place where anyone at all could see and observe them and make their own assumptions of whatever they wanted. _This—_sitting together with her in a relatively cramped space, where he could feel her warmth and he could hear her, softly humming along to a song playing on the radio—felt so much more private, _intimate_; in that strangely, unfamiliar sort of way.

In a public area, he could remind himself often that there were certain things he could or couldn't do—_which was already drawn in such a thin, thin line he usually forgot it existed at all, and where would he be without it?—_there were no such restrictions here, all alone with her where no one could _entirely _bother them.

He very suddenly didn't trust himself again.

Clearing his throat, he turned onto the street again and began to drive down toward the inner city, forcing his mind blank; heading in _no particular place at all (and how the hell was he supposed to deal with that?_) "Well, alright then," he murmured, and _felt _rather than _saw_ the responding smile she gave.

Every red light made his heart pound harder, for every minute spent waiting and every minute he _wasn't _kept busy with the road.

And there were so many things he wanted to do, _right then_, but a trillion—_he knew—_he shouldn't. But with her dawn-bright eyes and her whispery, wind-like voice, he couldn't find it in him to think them all through completely. He could count a dozen times over in his mind but could never distract himself enough to _not see_ the way her t-shirt clung to her or how the shadows dipped in the curves of her collarbone, or the way her tongue swiped across her lower lip, or even how her spiky lashes fluttered the warmer it became in the car—how her lips parted to sigh and how her dusty blue eyes met his slowly—how her gaze turned gentle and the hairpin curve of her lips deepened the longer he stared—

"You really do have such beautiful eyes," she said.

For a split second, he didn't _care_ about any of them. For a split second, not a single rule or restriction or law in the world could save him now.

—_And her lips reminded him of roses—_

—_And her eyes were so warm—_

—_And he wondered if she tasted of sour candy or those painkillers she kept in her plum-hued bag—_

But the light turned green, and suddenly he _did _care about them, and no amount of shiny swords or gleaming guns hanging over his head could stop it—and not a single song in the world she could hum to would ever change that—

—_Or so he'd like to tell himself—_

So he didn't kiss her the second day, either.

Although he really, really wanted to (_but laws and restrictions and rules existed and he was a proper gentleman after all_).

And he might've figured then, even if he never thought to, that she wanted him to kiss her, too.

~~...~~X~~...~~

**A.N.****: I'm having a tough time here, guys. I keep debating whether or not I should change the rating to "M", because my rough drafts always lean toward more...**_**suggestive**_** content, especially my most recent one, and I always have to edit things out as a result. I'm worried because I already established this as "**_**T**_**", and...damn it.**

**I'll have to think this through...**

**Anyway, thanks for reading and please review! I'll update as soon as I can (now that my self-proclaimed break has momentarily ended.)**


	7. Batman Shirt

**A.N.****: So, about that M rated stuff... I figure I'll just see how it goes. If I run into a place where it can't be avoided, I may change the rating. Just saying.**

**Disclaimer****: I do not own ****_Soul Eater_.**

It was strange how things worked out.

He was sleeping when she called him a few days later, and he rolled his head to the side to check the time, eyes hardly open and mouth pulling into a frown—dawn wasn't for another hour or so. A groan escaped him, from somewhere in his chest, and he reached out to his nightstand for his phone, assuming he was being called in on his day off. He mumbled a reply, a slur that stumbled over itself on its own, and he swallowed when his voice came out deeper than it usually did—roughened with sleep and heavy with exhaustion.

"_Oh!_" an inappropriately jubilant voice exclaimed from the other end, and he licked his lips with a wince to ease the pang in his head. "_I didn't realize you were still asleep! I'm sorry. I'll call back later._"

Realization dawned on him as he heard her begin to fumble with something in her arms to hang up. He shot up in his bed too quickly, and felt the world sway dangerously around him. He rubbed his forehead carefully as he gathered his bearings. "Wait—what is it? What's going on?"

Her voice became bouncy, and he could hear her shaking a box of candy on the other end—presumably the same brand she had at the gas station some few weeks ago. "_Remember how I told you I plant things?_"

His knuckles dragged across his jaw, and he could feel the very edges of his lips twitch—a recollection of that pretty, sunset-colored flower. "Yes," he replied patiently, and settled for crossing his legs to sit more comfortably and rubbing away the drowsiness from his eyes with his free hand.

"_I just got these seeds yesterday for some lilies,_" she explained, and he heard her pause in her box-shaking; the sound of crinkling plastic and a crackle of paper. "_I was going to ask you to join me, but since you're still sleeping, I guess I'll just—_"

"I'll go," he interrupted, and then wondered if he'd spoken too soon.

She was chewing on some candy—something soft and sticky and probably delicious, if the sound of her lightly sucking her fingers hadn't reached him over the line. "_Hm, are you sure? I can do it myself—all I wanted was company, really._"

"I'll go," he said firmly. "I'm already up as it is. I might as well."

The shaking continued, then, and her tone lightened considerably. "_Well—okay then! Meet me at the park in an hour!_"

Before he could say anything else, she hung up, with the rustling of more plastic paper and the sound of her chewing carelessly on her candy. And so he was left to making his bed and readying for the day in quick, hurried movements. He would wear some worn out jeans, and an old gray shirt he'd had for quite some time now; a dark trench coat and some heavy boots. He ate a bowl of cereal and, in passing, straightened a portrait for a couple—maybe ten, really—minutes before stepping out and locking the door (perhaps sixteen times; perhaps twenty; perhaps more) and wading over the soggy grass to his car.

The park was situated between the city and a large plaza for stores, just a few blocks from his house, and it was scattered with clusters of trees and greenery, with the occasional bench or trash bin to mark the area as an actual park. In the middle of the park, there was a pond of lily pads where koi and ducks roamed freely. A dozen yards or so from the pond was a restroom area, where a little building of clay colored bricks was built, and just before the building where a few vending machines with a choice selection of sweets and beverages and snacks to keep people coming back.

He found her at one of the vending machines, sliding in some coins into the appropriate slot and punching in the correct buttons for her snack—seeming to agonize over memorizing the right number and letter. He approached slowly.

Today's outfit was surprising to him—most of her clothing was, for the most part, striking to him. She had chosen to wear neon green rain boots, with loose gray pants that appeared to be splattered with random colors of paint, and a black shirt with the yellow emblem of a superhero—her backpack was a white bunny with a lavender bow about its neck and her hair was held back by a dark band. Her gardening tools were gathered about her feet in that careless, thoughtless way she seemed to have (inadvertently frustrating him beyond all possible reason).

"Do you want some?" she asked, breaking him from his thoughts. She was leaning back against the vending machine, munching on some potato chips. Her crystalline eyes shone with something akin to mischief, but it was gone before he could register it. She shook the bag out to him insistently, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her hoodie. "They're tasty."

"No, thank you," he murmured, rubbing his cheek—where a strange burning sensation had begun—"I've already eaten."

"Ah," she mumbled, and a most repentant look crossed her face. "I haven't. Sorry."

He fell a step back, an odd panic flaring from somewhere inside of him. "I—Did you want to get something to eat? We can plant afterward..."

"N-no," she stuttered, stooping to collected her supplies, although her other hand was busy holding the chips; she struggled to gather all of them. "I want to get this out of the way—then we can eat. If you want."

Recalling his manners, he hurried forward to help her. In trying to grab the watering can at the same time, their hands touched—his fingers sliding lightly across her soft, cool knuckles before he snatched it away—and that strange burning sensation returned to his cheeks.

(He wondered how red his face looked to her.)

"What are we planting, again?" he asked, following her deeper into the park. He looked past her, toward a large bunching of trees of all kinds—short or tall, thin or thick, bright or dark—and remembered, frowning, what she'd told him before. "This isn't an '_unpretty_' place, you know."

She paused to give him a toothy grin. "Good to see you're actually listening to me."

(_I always do._)

"They're lilies, by the way," she continued, and carefully stepped around a snail making its way toward a coverage of small shrubs—it would rain, again, it seemed. (He wondered if she had an umbrella, or if he'd have to give up his coat to keep her dry.) "Pink lilies. They're very pretty."

"I would think so," he murmured. She was trying to walk around every root of every tree, jutting out from beneath the ground, but some extended up toward her knees, and she stopped every so often to avoid them. His hand shot out when she nearly tripped, and she gave a breathless laugh when he caught her elbow.

"Clumsy, aren't I?" she jeered, yanking her boot from underneath a certain vine-like root. "A product of my unimpressive height, I'm afraid."

He watched her set down her tools when they reached the middle, brow furrowing slowly. "You don't like your height?"

The shovel in her hand tipped, dangled, and then fell to the dirt beneath them loudly; her hand clutched the potato chips tighter, and the other rifled through her pocket for what he assumed to be the seeds. She shook her head soundlessly. "It never made any sense to me, you know? My parents, siblings, relatives—all tall. And then there's me..." The packet of seeds tumbled out from her pocket abruptly, and she knelt to pick them up quickly. "Small."

For a second or two, he imagined it—her, with her family. Perhaps the black sheep, the outcast. Tiny and insignificant at the center of all these tall, proud, confident people—unsure and quiet and utterly out of place. He imagined her marking her height with her siblings, and the look of disappointment, of confusion and sadness, crossing her young face when she realized she was still the same height, while they had all surpassed her. He pictured her curling up in the corner of her room, alone and wounded by the words of her family, jokingly commenting about her shortness, never knowing they were actually hurting her with their words. He could see it, clearly, when he tried to imagine it—her uncertainty, her insecurities—and it made a part of him twist in sympathy and understanding.

After all, it wasn't as if his own condition had never been joked about.

Swallowing around some lump in his throat, he smiled very gently at her—as she raised her head to look at him and her eyes seemed to tighten with something very familiar shining in them—and he said, "But you're perfect."

And her eyes widened, endlessly blue and bright as winter mornings—when clouds were blindingly white and the sun refused to show—and there, there on her porcelain face, the sweetest pink he'd ever seen painted her cheeks softly, delicately, and she looked to him like a little doll, vulnerable, breakable, beautiful. A small, genuine smile warmed her face; a faint laugh escaped her.

(She rubbed the shine from her eyes.)

"Didn't your mom ever teach you not to lie?" she teased, picking up her shovel to begin planting. She avoided his gaze, but the blush never left her face.

"I'm not lying," he said, and walked toward her.

She dropped the shovel, standing very quickly, eyes wide and stricken. "W-wait," she mumbled, clutching at the fabric of her shirt, directly over her heart. He stopped just a few feet away, and her head had to tilt back to look at him—did it make her feel bad? Did he make her remember all of her insecurities?

(He really hoped not.)

He took another step forward. She held her ground.

(She trembled.)

"I just—I just—" she muttered, reaching up to adjust an earring that didn't need adjusting—a tiny skull reminiscent of the cufflinks she'd bought him. Her thin brows were pulled together, and the look in her eyes made something warm tickle his chest. "I don't know why—I trust you... I feel—scared, of something..."

A droplet of icy water struck his ear, and he looked up to see the rain begin to fall. It snuck between the trees, the branches and leaves and twigs, and he noticed, astonished, that it was raining heavily outside of the little haven the trees provided.

_When had it started raining? _

"I've been meaning to ask you," she said under her breath, and her hand hesitantly touched the material of his shirt very gently. "It's been almost a month, you know...and I really like how things are going between us—even if it's slow..."

The silvery locks of her hair was slipping from behind the band, and her spidery black lashes fluttered a moment, her eyes lowering slowly. He could see the outline of her collarbone from this angle—the curve of her nose and where the loops in her eyebrow pierced her flesh—the curl of her lips, parting uncertainly, and the undeniable shapes beneath her shirt—he could _see _it, because she was so small.

(If he told her, would it break her down?)

"I know it sounds a bit conceited," she sighed, and her head bowed even more.

He could see how the rain began to wet her hair. Should he give her his coat?

"But I was wondering..." She raised her head to look at him, and her eyes reflected the sky right back at him. "Do you even like me?"

For a moment, he wanted to laugh.

—_of course I like you, how silly of you to ask—_

—_I like you so much sometimes I wonder if you should run away from me—_

(He wondered, then, if there was more she was hiding behind her eccentric disposition. If her insecurities didn't stop just at her appearance. If there was something lurking behind her ice blue eyes she refused to show to anyone.)

(Why was she so doubtful of his attraction to her?)

(And why was he as scared as she was?)

Her cool, slender hands cradled his face, and his thoughts cut off immediately—his breath, his mind, his heart, his world; all stopped for her—and she rose on the tips of her toes, stretched as high as she could go, her neck craning as much as it could—and yet she reached just shy of a few inches, no matter how tall she made herself to be.

Her breath fanned across his face—and he could smell something sweet from her tongue, masked by the aftermaths of her snack, left abandoned on the floor beside her shovel and seeds—and she nearly fell back down to level height—except—

—_except he suddenly wasn't so afraid anymore—_

—_except her eyes reminded him of all those nights spent alone in his room, wondering why, why, why it was that he was different from everyone else—_

—_except she was _just like him_ and he couldn't take the thought of knowing that, at some time in her life, she might've cried herself to sleep nearly every day— _

—except he closed that tiny space between them—

(That space between her insecurities and his doubts.)

(That space between her fears and his anxieties.)

(And, really, did it matter how many loops she had in this eyebrow and not in the other? Did it matter that there was a single silver eyelash among the black ones? Did it matter that her nails were painted five different colors?)

His hand tangled into the soft locks of silver at the back of her head, tilting it further back and slanting his mouth across hers, and his arm wrapped around her middle, pulling her up toward him—and her lips—_God, her lips tasted like burning, hot cherries, terribly sweet and sour at the same time—_and her breath was warm and her fingers were searing across the nape of his neck, and he felt—he felt—

There were a thousand things he felt, but the only thing he could think about was how nicely her mouth molded against his, how quickly and willingly she responded to his kiss, how tenderly she combed his hair through her suddenly tepid fingers.

And when he let her go, he didn't entirely want to let her go, but his neck was getting a crick and her body was trembling trying to support her own weight—stubbornly never letting him take over.

But the look in her eyes, as she opened them slowly and let herself relax and fall back down her full height, melted him right in the spot.

(They weren't winter and icy rain anymore—they were scorching fire and blistering summer.)

"So you _do _like me," she mumbled, the edge of her lips, a deeper pink now, moist now, pulling up in that little smirk. Only the blush on her face gave away her feelings.

He supposed his did, too.

"Let's get to planting, shall we?" she suggested, and turned on the heel of her boot to begin, but then completed the circle to face him once again. "Do you wanna go to dinner tonight?"

He felt himself smile widely. "Yes, I'd like that very much."

Another toothy grin. "Alright, then."

~~...~~o*o~~...~~

**A.N.****: This took me a bit to write, sorry. I finally had some free time to spare, so...here we go.**

**Anyway, hope you enjoyed reading, please review, and I'll update as soon as I can!**


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